The first time it took place, my partner Rick and I had actually been fooling around in the front seat of his late ’80s design Toyota Camry. Picture center taxis implied to appear like rims, self-applied window tint, and 2 Midwestern teenagers working enthusiastically to get each other off.
Afterward, we looked down to find that the seat below me was wet. I mean, really really damp. Soaked as if I ‘d spilled his extra big Mountain Dew.
Since that uncomfortable initiation, being a squirter is something I’ve come to own with pride. However back then, I was mortified. We believed I ‘d peed myself.
This was pre-Google, in 1996. There was really intentionally no Sex Ed at Bedford High in Bedford, Ohio, and that all of us bought into the mythical worth of virginity had the unexpected impact of encouraging creative experimentation. Oral sex was okay. Getting fingered. Essentially anything besides s-e-x. By 16 years old, I would turn into one of those ladies who had actually had anal sex and still called herself a virgin.
All this experimentation began two years earlier with a boy named Charlie. I ‘d believed I ‘d like the taste of an older young boy’s mouth, cigarettes and metal and Listerine. The afternoon of our first “date,” Charlie had gotten his tongue pierced. He wasn’t supposed to be making out, however we did it anyway, in his automobile in the parking area. It felt attractive and amazing to be liked by someone more “advanced,” 16 to my 14. He should actually like me, I remember believing, to be using his new tongue ring prior to it was appropriately healed.
For days or weeks or months– I have no idea, time stands still when you’re a teenage girl getting fingered– Charlie would choose me up in the afternoons after work and bring me back to his house. While his grandparents were away, we constructed out on the couch. I ‘d get naked and we ‘d kiss. In some cases I ‘d touch him through his clothes. When I did, he felt huge, engorged and insistent, and I ‘d become terribly scared–” dick shy,” the young boys my age would say.
Because Charlie was 2 years older than me, I trusted him. More and more, I ended up being comfortable lying next to him naked. He ‘d kiss me all over, anticipating absolutely nothing in return. We barely talked, constantly solving to business. He touched me, carefully in the beginning. I was amazed to learn my body’s responses. It was like he knew simply exactly what to do. Slow or quick, he pushed his fingers inside of me, gently, then harder.
One afternoon, as he was doing this, the living room began to spin. The regular day crumpled into itself and, in one perfect minute, everything fixated my body. As it was occurring, Charlie told me that I was having an orgasm.
Climaxing with Rick was different than my earlier orgasms. In both cases, prior to coming, there was the feeling of urgency. However instead of pulling in, spraying felt like everything pushing out.
Perhaps incredibly, it wasn’t until my 30s that I masturbated for the very first time– not for an audience, but for myself. With my own hand and a vibrator, I learned ways to make myself squirt: not to impress a guy, but to simply leave. I discovered that I didn’t need somebody to inform me exactly what was happening, certainly not some kid.
When I did, it reminded me of the afternoon Rick and I burglarized a house that was under construction. Out of the hot Midwestern sun, and a little like a church– there, amongst the fresh drywall and freshly laid carpets, we left wet areas all over. Like the animals we were.